


spring

by orphan_account



Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M, Shota, Shotacon, lapslock, why am i posting this? wanted someone else to read it lmfao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-05
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2021-01-23 18:28:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21324676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: a cute boy & some random guy spend the day together. for the shotacons.
Relationships: Original Character(s)/Original Character(s), Reon/Liam
Kudos: 10





	spring

**Author's Note:**

> not proofread or anything!! i just wrote this a while ago to eke out some feelings, & felt like shooting it out into the void, i guess?
> 
> implied romantic connection between a minor & someone waaay older, so take warning. don't like don't read & all that.  
& uh. feel free to leave a comment :??

“you said you were hungry,” says reon, tying the apron’s bow at the small of his back. it’s stark and coral against the black of his sweater--he’s rolling the sleeves of that up, and sending an ill-timed wink at liam. liam holds a sigh.  


“yes. that doesn’t mean you have to cook,” _ because just how high do you think carmen would string me if she knew you were here, you, rose's son,  _ ** _cooking_ ** , but of course this is left to hide in his mouth. “you’re here to relax. you should sit. take it easy.”  


reon places liam’s worries in the background. he sends an emerald gaze around the kitchen, looking for a stool to stand on (“yes, i’m a bit short now, i’ll definitely grow taller--”). when he finds it, he carts it over to the sink, hops on top, and starts washing the carrots.    


“so. i'm making soup.” 

“soup.”

“yes. i was going to make beef soup. does that sound good?” a yes slides out of liam’s mouth, too fast for him to catch it. reon smiles. “alright,” and the word is so chipper.  _ shot through with sunlight _ . the boy's dappled in afternoon gold streaming through the window just above the counter, making that yellow hair the shade of daisies, spring-time ribbons and lit up honey. when he looks over his shoulder that smile is a rejection of the winter raging outside.  


“where do you keep the knives?” reon side-bends, and opens the drawer next to him. shuts it. nothing but spoons in there. he turns to check another drawer, and nearly startles himself off the stool onto the floor. liam is there. liam is there, tall and dark, and he has to crane his neck back to meet his eyes. reon wants to reach a hand out, press a finger in the line etching itself between liam’s brows, but he won't, he can’t. instead:  


“too many cooks spoil the broth--"  


“you’re just washing carrots.”

a cheek is filled with air. reon pouts, and it’s a rare sort of miracle. “well, i’ll be chopping them up soon--hey--" liam lifts the carrots from the sink, and they drip onto the counter. he turns the sink off. reon glares.  


“hey.”

“hey,” liam greets, setting the carrots on a cutting-board--where’d he get a cutting board that fast, where’d he get the knife--and prepares them.  


“i can’t have a child cooking for me,”

reon’s stomp echoes into the room and interrupts. there’s a rattle, wood against floor, and liam glances over to make sure he doesn’t disturb the stool and go falling to his doom.  


“i’ll be 13 this year!”  


“that’s. how old you think i am?”  


reon pauses. tilts his head to the side, emerald eyes squinted and prising out years and years from liam’s face. he says:  


“twenty..one, two?”  


and liam says, “twenty-four,” and thinks, eleven goddamned years. eleven. years. four syllables to twist his mind into knots and deepen that awful abyss in his ribcage and reon is obviously unaware, because he hops off the stool and walks to the fridge and like nothing has ever been amiss:  


“so i was a baby when you were eleven.” when he returns to the spot he’d left, he’s cradling a few tomatoes. “that’s interesting. cecilia knew me then.”  


“did she.” he knows she did.   


“yes! she talked about you a lot, so i was.”  


“you were?”

“i am. excited, to meet you,” and he splays his hands on the counter as if laying out his cards.  _ here they are, all my hearts. _ “i want this to go well.”  


liam looks at him. reon is staring beacons at his own hands. as if the answers to the universe and, having a good time with men you’ve only heard about in passing and known for a whole of ten minutes were written over his knuckles; and he couldn’t read. liam looks at him, harder, and decides to break some rules.  


he pokes reon’s cheek. reon turns to him, blinking.  


doesn’t say a thing, though his stare says enough.  


“it is going well, reon.”  


“...is it?”

“yes. now let’s make this soup.”  


they spend their afternoon like this: liam lets every call he gets bury itself in the voicemail grave, and december hums its white song outside. yet the boy next to him calls up spring in his chest, has summer in his cheeks, and the soup’s damn good when they settle on the couch.  


_ can we do this again? yes. _


End file.
